Two on the Sands
by rudefool
Summary: Arabian AU. Duck, the German merchant's daughter, is out to prove that she can do anything her heart tells her to do. Fakir just wants to prove that he isn't as awful at his job as everyone seems to think he is. Together, they weather any storm.
1. Chapter 1

This came to me when I was reading up on Middle Eastern/ Indian history. I found out that a Fakir was a holy man who did all sorts of religious stuff and traveled around everywhere. They're sort of like gurus and they were mostly of the Hindu or Muslim faiths. Then I was kinda like: "Woo! Princess Tutu Arabian AU!" and this is what happened.

Two on the Sands

Chapter One: The Names that did not Fit.

It was hard for the young man to think himself holy when he felt so unbearably material. First there was his body, a burden nearly uncastable, then the dark cloth around him that felt so real and earthly against his skin. The sword, of course, was the deepest betrayal of his piety. No man like himself should need such a weapon. A man like himself could miraculously survive any attack because that was the Gods' will. Because it was his holiness that saved him from the mere troubles of the normal man's physical pain. Instead his type spent years traveling, growing rough on the road like the callouses of a slave. He was a slave of the gods and he was sure the gods hated him.

Fakir was positive he was awful at his job. Being a faqr meant healing the sick, preforming astonishing feats aided by deities, and spreading a faith. These were all roles that Fakir vowed to perform with the utmost perfection, and while the effort was there, he still failed miserably more often than naught. Maybe there was a recess in his mind, the smallest fissure that held all of his doubts. Fakir feared the gods, he feared that all he was to do was a lie, he feared the endless tunnel of his life that held no visible light, but most of all he feared death.

It was something he cursed himself for often. The Faqrs knew death was an illusion and a passage to the next life to be welcomed. One lived for death and death revealed a next life, a hopefully better life. Fakir saw death as a early ending and a story cut short. It was painful and heart wrenching and it left those behind with empty spaces everywhere. Death was the unfortunate conclusion of a person's life and it was awful.

It didn't help that Fakir was literally named after the holy men. It seemed he had a fate set and he was destined to die an ironic death, one to be welcomed but was instead feared so much.  
Hitching up the sword that hung under dark folds and against his hip, Fakir walked. Traveling from place to place, lost in the sands, eternally hungry and sore because it was the job fate and the gods had decided for him.

* * *

Duck was not a duck, contrary to what the man selling her naan said. He was leaning in, bushy beard, eyebrows, hair- bushy everything, and grinning with his missing teeth and dark, tiny eyes. She was stepping back, thanking the vendor and practically flinging the money at him. Too many people did this to her and she was an easy sight to gawk at, with her ample red hair and pale skin. Duck's freckles were particularly a point of interest amongst the olive-skinned Persian women who conspired behind their burkas. Their dark eyes would glint with hidden smiles as their gazes fell on Duck, clearly amused at her appearance. It was both unnerving and flattering. Back in Rhine land, Duck received no second glances but here it was almost a welcome surprise. Almost.

The new attention garnered from status of foreigner also fell with the less savory types. Duck may not have been the sharpest quill in the drawer but she wasn't blind to the numerous merchants that attempted to swindle her of money at sight of her odd look, nor was she oblivious to the raking, appraising glances some men gave her. They assumed innocence came bundled with her unfamiliarity in a simple package. But Duck was no fool, maybe an idiot, but not a fool. She stumbled around enough but common sense had yet to fully abandon her. In this foreign land of shifting sands the girl named Duck could at least find comfort in the fact that she was not lost.

* * *

It was pathetic and he was lost. The dry sandy towns deep in the desert served as labyrinths that desperately lured in and trapped people for the sake of increasing a dwindling population. Fakir wondered why anyone would wish to live in the dark shadows of the dull houses that cowered on either side of the narrow, dusty streets and came to the conclusion that one only settled here against their own will. No one would actually want move to such a place as Abd-Al- Rashid and those there were kept against their will by unyielding, rough-hewn and ugly walls.

Fakir hoped to leave the town as soon as possible. He prayed to Ganesha for an obstacle free journey, pulling out a small illustration of the elephant- headed god from his meager sack. There was no set destination in his wanderings and he was a fool to wish for no problems along the way.

Climbing a slight cobbled incline, Fakir stepped out of the gloom of the streets and into a bright, bleached pool of sun. The market square of Abd- Al- Rashid was incredibly blinding after the cavernous darkness that he had emerged from and he shielded his eyes briefly against the glare. Everything was remarkably beige. Tents were sand-stained and beaten while trader's robes had a rust tint from weeks on the road and the whole scene seemed submerged in a cloud of dust. It was a surprisingly bustling place for commerce, considering the desolate cluster of structures that was called a town. The market was a place where people from far away traded with people from even farther away- a sort of halfway point across the vast desert.

Blinking, Fakir wove into the crowd, looking uncommittingly for something to do, someone to help. Something to eat would have been nice too. Nothing caught his eye and the market was exasperatingly identical to almost every other one Fakir had ever seen. He shifted on his heels, scanning the outskirts of the square when he stopped.

There. A bright spot of vermillion, so contrasting in the never ending dull around it. Between the edge of the market place and the beginning of an alleyway in a bold strip of diagonal shadow. Fakir headed of in the direction of interest dodging people and tents and carts animals. Amidst the din and eddying throng his whole attention was centered on the vivid point. As Fakir approached the origins of the orange more came into focus. It was hair that belonged to a girl in a mustard-yellow tunic who appeared to be making an attempt to look inconspicuous despite her bright appearance. Upon further inspection Fakir was intrigued by her pale skin and wide blue eyes; he had never seen someone like her before.

The faqr's shadow fell across the girl and she made a scene of only just noticing him by releasing a strangled sound of surprise that sounded almost duck-like.  
"Hey."  
"Huh? Who? Me?"  
She frantically looked left and right as if he had addressed someone else. It was almost comical as her ample hair flopped around, clashing horribly with the yellow cloth. Fakir was not in the mood for stupidity.  
"No, I was just talking to that cat over there." she accepted this with a slow bewildered and preoccupied looking nod that made him want to connect his palm with his forehead as soon as possible.  
"Idiot. I was talking to you."  
"Oh! Uhh... Do you think we could talk later? I'm kinda hiding." Fakir had decided to confront the girl because it looked like she was in trouble and he was never one to withdraw aid- no matter how annoying the aided. He pressed through his obvious frustration and attempted the friendly, wise holy man gambit he was so awful at. "Why were you hiding?"  
"Well... You see I was walking down another alley somewhere over there" there was indicated by a vague flap of a hand "And there were these men looking at me all funny- and not funny in a good way- and I told them to mind their own business and they said that my business was their business because that was their part of town or something and I told them that I really had to go but there was this huge guy blocking the way and then they said that they wouldn't mind spending some time with an exotic girl and it was really scary so I punched the big one in the face and ran all the way over here." she looked flustered after releasing everything in one breath and she raised her wide eyes to meet his. Fakir noticed they were surprisingly devoid of fear. Standing there in all her vermillion and mustard yellow glory, she was possibly one of the strangest things he had ever seen and being a faqr was not a job light on 'normal'. One fist was clutched and drawn to her chest, buried in the bright cloth. Fakir tried to imaging, with some amusement, the amount of surprise the man must have felt when she delivered a blow strong enough to bruise her own knuckles like that.  
"Did you hit him hard?" she nodded again but with substantially more assuredness and determination.  
"Yeah! 'Gave him a real slugger!"

Her enthusiasm was annoying.


	2. Chapter 2

Yo! New chapter and junk. Have fun or something and thank you very much for the reviews! This is my first time posting a story so the support is great. Ok go enjoy!

Chapter 2: Comings and Goings.

She had been truly afraid just then, when a shadow fell across her. For a brief moment between surprise and panic, she wondered if any of this would have happened if she didn't stand out so much. This thought was displaced by an inelegant quack. Looking up, Duck saw the dark silhouette above her, blocking the sun and felt her apprehension building so much that she was sure her spit could be tainted with it. Duck braced herself, preparing for the worst.  
"Hey." the conversation became less terrifying and more idiotic from there. The man appeared increasingly annoyed and Duck felt increasingly stupid. She wondered why the stranger had even bothered with her in the first place as she examined him. He was much taller than her and he looked down with an almost concealed contempt. Boldly, she met his sharp, green eyes as she told him about punching that big man's nose and maybe Duck had imagined it, but she was sure he almost grinned then.  
"My name's Duck! What's yours?" he blinked at the sudden introduction  
"Fakir." Duck was astounded that Fakir didn't question the oddness of her name; she smiled and stepped away from the wall  
" Pleased to meet you Fakir!" the strained look on his tanned face softened at this and Duck felt instantly at ease. Fakir began walking back into the bustling market and she followed, asking questions along the way.  
"Are you here for the market Fakir?"  
"No."  
"Do you live here?"  
"Hell no."  
"Aww you don't like Abd-Al-Rashid? Why not?" she nearly bumped into him when she realized he had stopped.  
"Look. Duck," she marveled at how un-foreign he made her name sound "I came over to help you not to make friends. If you have no problems then I'll just leave." Duck's grin fell a fraction but she was not one to be easily deterred. She had just found a possible friend and she was not about to lose the opportunity.  
"Actually..." faltering, Duck racked her brain for something Fakir could help her with "You could... help me pack up my cart! I have a problem lifting all the heavy crates." he looked back at her, slightly disbelieving but complied anyway. Smiling wider, Duck stepped ahead and began leading him through the market to her stall.  
"Sooo... Why'd you want to help me so bad? Most people just don't care."  
"I'm a faqr."  
"I know you're Fakir!" Duck rolled her eyes and caught her new companion pinching the bridge of his nose out of the corner of her vision.  
"No. I am actually a faqr my name just happens to be the same as my role." Fakir countered, obviously irritated. Duck thought long about this, trying to recall, with all her might, if she actually knew what a faqr was  
"...What's a faqr?"  
"We're like gurus or holy men."  
"So you're like a monk?" it was Fakir's turn to ponder, but he knew his answer and did not make a fool of himself.  
"More like a traveling monk."  
"Huh. So you help people?" Duck asked  
"Yes."  
"Is it fun?"  
"No."  
Fakir was not a conversationalist. Duck briefly considered if she were to shut up then the likelihood of becoming his friend would increase tenfold. This was immediately dismissed by the notion that friends were friends because they knew each other. How was Duck supposed to get to know Fakir if she didn't ask him anything? She was about to open her mouth to question where he was from when mister talkative himself decided to ask her something  
"Wait. If you're here and your cart is in the market then who is watching it? I don't care if you come from someplace where people won't even steal loaves- what were you thinking?" Duck took a few moments to acclimate herself to the sudden shift in discussion. She acknowledged this with an:  
"Oh. My cart." this seemed to anger Fakir who had now stopped following her and was looking at her back with an incredulous fury.  
"You're kidding right? You have to be kidding. I mean, no one can be that stupid."  
"My cart, I left it-"  
" In the name of everything that is holy- you really are that much of an idiot!"  
"-I left it with Uzura."  
"Oh." Fakir looked abashed and attempted to compose himself by walking up ahead of Duck. She snickered when he stopped again and asked her where they were going.  
"It's just on the west edge of the market. We're almost there."  
They traveled a little longer before Duck heard Fakir speak again. It came quietly and far less forceful than the rest of his speech and it made her smile wider.  
"Sorry about getting angry at you."  
"That's fine! Apology accepted."

* * *

Fakir was about as good at apologies as he was at conversation which meant he was horribly and inexplicably useless at both. This meant that his sorry came as a surprise. The Brahmans preached forgiveness and if they knew the odd girl named Duck then they would be proud.  
Duck was a small, thin thing with far too much arms and legs. Her wide blue eyes seemed to take up more than the appropriate amount of face and her mouth was small, loud and possibly the perfect shape for smiling. She walked a few feet in front of him with a jaunty stumbling gait that suggested her enthusiasm regularly over-rode her coordination. Agreeing with his most early impressions, Fakir reiterated that she was one of the strangest things he had ever seen to himself.  
The small covered cart that Duck ended their short journey in front of, however, could contend in the title of oddity. It was a gaudy, ornate thing with too much wood carving and even more color. A slightly tattered-looking banner hung haphazardly over ill-concealed German lettering. Bold, crooked Arabic was scrawled across its length by an obviously inexperienced hand. Geflügel's Animal Skin Bound Books. Fakir frowned. That was probably one of the least appealing stand names he had ever read and that included some very creative food stall names. Duck turned to him, saw his confusion and followed his eyes to the sign.  
"Oh! My father-well he's not really my father, but anyway- my father didn't know the Arabic word for leather so he just used animal skin instead. We found out later but it was too much of a hassle to fix." she finished lamely and looked at the banner for a few seconds  
"Maybe we should fix-"  
"Ducks back 'zura!" Fakir blinked at the green haired blur that had launched itself from somewhere within the cart and then latched onto Duck. Now stationary, the figure was now identifiable as a young girl with round, pale features. Her attire was so obnoxious that if she were to stand up against the wagon, one would barely be able to tell the difference between clothes and paint. Fakir considered that to be a reason why he had missed her in the first place. Still slightly dazed, he only then noticed that the mint-haired projectile was a child no more than six years old.  
"You left a child in charge of your wares." he dead-panned, resisting the urge to roll his eyes skyward and pray to Shiva to 'kill me now.'  
"Aww don't be mean Fakir! Uzura had everything under contr-"  
"I caught a snake 'zura!"  
"What?" Duck squawked frantically looking left and right for signs of the reptile.  
"Yup! I caught it and put it in a jar 'zura!"  
"Oh! Um do you maybe think you could tell me which jar it is?"  
Fakir was caught between laughing and groaning. To remedy the situation he asked about moving crates and Duck quickly put him to work.  
It was a disorganized ordeal and many boxes were put down, picked up and put down again in an oversized book-laden puzzle. Duck seemed oblivious to the annoyance Fakir slowly amassed from her constant mistakes and continued smiling a dopey smile at each container he moved. The crates themselves were filled with a spectrum of books, finely bound in leather and gilded with glittering accents. Fakir felt drawn to the pages, they begged him to mar them with his driven, hasty scrawl but he restrained himself. A faqr did not need worldly possessions.  
The young Uzura and Duck bantered inconsequential words around him. It was soon discovered that the child had put the snake in another merchant's pot who, much to Duck's distress, had rode off without realizing his new serpentine passenger. The atmosphere around them was strange and the faqr felt oddly as if he had nothing to prove and that Duck and her little assistant didn't expect anything from him other than a bit of heavy lifting. It was strangely relieving. After a while, Duck's disorganization became less and less bothersome and the placement of the last crate came much sooner than he expected. Placing the final load on the cart, Fakir turned to see Duck standing with a small book in her hands. It was palm- sized, indigo, unassuming and made from what appeared to be a sort of suede. He raised an eyebrow.  
"I wanted to thank you for helping me, 'cause you know, there aren't enough helpful people these days." Duck paused and rocked back on her heels. Fakir resisted the urge to interrupt with an 'it's my job I don't need payment'. "I saw you looking at them so I figured you wouldn't mind having one, and I know it's not much but there aren't many that aren't cow or pig leather and I don't know if you're Hindu or Muslim so I just went with sheep skin and I hope you like it..." her rambling faded away and she looked up, gift still cradled in her hands. Fakir was about to reject it with the argument of his type and their lack of possessions, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the old call of ink on paper; maybe the heat had clouded his judgment, maybe her eyes held such an untainted hope, such a desire to give, that the customary denial would surely be a sin against humanity, so he took it.  
Holding the book in his weathered hand, Fakir locked eyes with Duck and let out a true smile  
" It's perfect."

And he thought she couldn't have grinned any wider.

* * *

It was sad to part ways so early on. Fakir was Duck's first friend in those foreign lands- despite what he said about not making friends- and the sands felt less endless and less daunting now that she knew there were helpful and somewhat friendly people there. He told her he was walking north and she said she was heading east to the coastal kingdoms where trade flourished.  
"Maybe our paths will cross again."  
"Maybe."  
"Well… Thanks again Fakir!"  
"Yeah! Thanks 'zura!" he nodded in acknowledgement and set off in one direction, the dark fabric of his robes whipping back in the wind as if reluctant to part with the bright cart. Duck felt a pang of sadness, watching him leave. Suddenly he turned and called back.  
"Oh and Duck? Change your sign or no one will want to buy your books. It had better be fixed when I see you again." Duck immediately brightened and raised a hand to wave while Uzura gave a sort of half salute.  
"I will! Bye Fakir!"  
"Good bye Duck."  
They both stood on the sandy ground of the market, the world moving around them, and watched as his tall figure faded into the dust and din. Duck felt a tug on her yellow tunic and looked down to meet Uzura's inquisitive, violet eyes.  
"We'll see him again, won't we 'zura?"  
"Yes. I'm sure we will."  
And with that the two hitched up their camel and headed east.

AN: Here's a drawing I did of Duck and Fakir in some pretty Arabic looking clothes: .com/#/d4xp6yp Yup. Gonna go make a chair now/finish my AP art portfolio.


	3. Orbit Before Alignment or: Night and Day

Wow. Long time no see, huh? Well here's another chapter, this time with or heroes apart, but not without a few special guests. You just enjoy, alrigLoved-Rudefool

At night, the desert glowed with an unearthly luminescence. Above, a river of stars, sprinkled generously from some great diety's hand, pierced the dark veil of the sky, below the ocean of sand reflected the light of a heavy moon, pale and bright, full of glittering granules. It was cool at night and the sand would shed its heat, dimming from red hot to cold blue as the sun set. The wind stilled, the day died and the world quieted to the hoarse whisper of the slightest breeze carrying crystals over endless a bed of silky sand, Duck viewed the vista of stars that reflected in her clear, wide eyes. Uzura nestled next to her, blinking away sleep, attempting to stay awake and watch the heavens with her older friend. Duck thought of the universe. She thought of herself, of Uzura, of everyone back in Rhine land, of Fakir. Behind her was her cart full of books, ready to be sold and that ridiculous banner that she had promised to change. Even further back was Abd-Al-Rashid and every other town she had journeyed through. And beyond that was her old life, familiar, boring and completely devoid of any chances for Duck to prove herself.

The only way was forward. Duck pointed to one of the few constellations she knew of in that part of the world

"Look Uzura. That cluster of stars is called Cygnus. It's the swan constellation."

"What's a constellation 'zura?" their conversation was as hushed as the softly shifting sand that traveled grain by grain, across the vast openness.

"They're a group of stars that could be millions of miles apart but they still mean something and they're still connected because they are part of the same picture or story. " Duck whispered and gently tugged Uzura closer. "It's like you and me, Edel and father and... Who else... ah! And Fakir! We're all stars in the same constellation and no matter how far away we are from each other, we're all part of the same story."

"What about the other stars 'zura?"

"I dunno... Maybe they're people we haven't met yet. Our story never ends and there will be so many new people to help us along the way." she smiled up at the sky and then at Uzura, who returned the grin in the bright darkness.

"Like Fakir 'zura?" Duck paused and thought about her surly savior. He was by no means, a storybook hero, but she recalled him in an overly gallant fashion that was usually reserved for those types. Blushing, she mentally chastised herself for such silliness but responded with undeniable affection.

"Yeah. Like Fakir."

* * *

In the light of the day, the desert was blinding. The sand, tinted pale gold, hugged a deep, sagging horizon of blue. It was as if some great hand had drawn a crooked line and then divided it between sky and land, giving each side unbearable brightness above and below. From high up, the sun loomed and swept over a dry dusty land with piercing, rippling rays. It was hot.

Fakir stood starkly against the bleached landscape, his figure, dark and wavering on the road. Air rose in musty spirals of heat and dust, and lifted high into to cloudless, blue sky, swirling about him in a hot, dry wind. All around the day drifted but never at an acceptable speed. Alone, on the sands, Fakir felt directionless and empty, much like the land around him and he was further bothered by the fact that this was a new problem. Something happened recently that caused this need of companionship. Something Fakir couldn't seem to get his finger on and his thoughts would inevitably turn to the annoying book merchant, Duck. The reasons for the directions of his mind were also eluding him, but his hands were drawing nearer to the small blank tome stowed away in his satchel.

The urge to write had left Fakir for years after his parents had died at his hand and his pen. He was shipped off to the monastery and kept with the monks who feared and condemned Fakir's gift. Not that he blamed them. The power to bring words to life had brought the young man nothing but pain. They taught Fakir to be a faqr because it was his destiny to help and heal people and it was his duty to devote his life to his faith. The Brahmans taught him Hindu texts and pushed him through the monastery door at age 17. Both the monks and his three years on the road had prevented him from writing words of his own. That ability scared them almost as much as it scared Fakir; it was a gift that put him amongst the Gods and no one- not even the Deities themselves- wanted a mere human to have that much power.

But how that little blue book called him! Did Duck know what a position she had put him in? No, that was impossible. Maybe the gift was the Gods' message to return to the world of the written word. Fakir nearly whipped the book out at that thought. It beckoned and pleaded with him, demanding to be opened, hungry for sentences and phrases and characters. The yearning was an extension of Fakir's own want, he felt himself in the blank leaves ready, to be filled.

Deep within his bag, Fakir's fingers connected with the warm, soft, suede and it became obvious the only way the hand would be withdrawn would be if it were closed around the book.

He was tugged in so many directions, all of them, he had to face alone and he cursed and blessed Duck for the gift that caused so much inner conflict but made him feel a little less solitary.

From the depths, Fakir extracted the book, cradling it, as Duck had, between both of his hands. His walking slowed, eyes focused singularly in the blue cover. Solitary on the hard-packed road, book in hands, covered in dust, hungry, tired, Fakir stood with one thought:

He really needed a pen.

* * *

The man cringed at her sign, his feline eyes crinkling to a squint. He was a tall sort with a crop of neatly trimmed black- almost violet hair and a face made for impressive displays of emotion. Sniffing, he voiced the distaste he felt for her banner in a high, whining manner.

"Ms. Geflügel I presume?" He had a foreigner's voice possibly from the British isles. Duck nodded in affirmation "You sell animal skin bound books?" she nodded again "Well! That sounds absolutely atrocious!" The young merchant nearly bobbed her head again but stopped with a sharp noise of surprise.

"Would you like to buy one?" came her tentative question.

"Would you like to marry me?"

"Oh great! Books this size are 6 dinars. Smaller books are- wait... What?"

"With this sign, your business surely must be awful. Don't you think the stability of marriage would help you stay afloat?"

"Huh? But- but, marriage? I'm too young! I haven't even talked to my guardians yet! And Uzura! What would I do about her? I can't marry you!" there was a long extended, pause in which Duck ceased waving a book she didn't realize she had been waving in the first place.

"Never mind Ms. Geflügel. I will not buy a book."

"Oh."

"Please fix your banner."

"Yes."

The man set off after he was finished being entirely rude to everything in Duck's establishment. Watching his retreating form, she sighed feeling particularly disappointed. No book had left her inventory during her entire trip, save for the small, plain blue one she gave to Fakir about a week before. What would she tell Edel and Father when she returned with a cart full of tomes and pockets completely devoid of money? Duck had wanted to prove herself. She wanted to show everyone that she could do anything. Uzura came from behind the cart and gave her a pointed look.

"You promised to change the sign 'zura." Duck groaned and sat heavily on the sturdy diagonal of the cart's hitch. Uzura had the strange ability to keep her elder's priorities in order and kept the two of them some-what organized.

"Well... We may as well buy some canvas." Duck suggested grumpily. They packed the cart haphazardly before coaxing their camel to the front. He was a temperamental animal with an unfortunate fondness for spitting. He didn't yet have a name either- possibly a contributing factor to his foul disposition. Duck huffed and prayed to what ever deity she saw in Fakir's bag that maybe things would start going her way. The odd elephant one with too many arms- maybe he was the God of sales or books or merchants or obedient camels.

Crawling deeper into the vast market space of Jiddah, Duck parted the crowd, her cart the vessel and the constant swirling mass of people the sea. She felt little buoyance, though, it was more akin to descending into an abyss. The bright cloth around her was dizzying and individuals shouted in raw sounding Arabic for Duck to get out of the way and stop blocking the path. Duck was eager to avoid the chaos; she dragged her entourage to a far corner skirting an alley way. The spot reminded her of the hiding place she had used a week ago in Abd- Al- Rashid. The fleeting expectancy fled when Duck spun on her heel, surveying with no glimpse of her surly traveling monk. Feeling disappointed, Duck backed into the shadow of a squat building only to connect with another body. The two fell to the ground in a mess of bright cloth and long limbs while noises of frustration left angry dust clouds in the air. Uzura watched avidly. They both scrambled up and Duck spouted frantic apologies. The woman she had so skillfully knocked over stood with far more grace, rising like the plumage of some great dark bird. The violet of her robes glittered in the half-light, much like her eyes.

Duck was momentarily speechless. This woman was beautiful.

"Do you even look where you're going?" the trance broke.

"Hey! You bumped into me too! You weren't watching out either." she finished in a sulky mumble and the woman raised a tapered, arched brow.

"And who exactly are you?"

"Duck Geflügel."

"A foreigner hmm?" Duck didn't respond "And what are you doing in Jiddah?"

"I sell books. They're very nice ones! Not atrocious at all!" this woman demanded respect and Duck had no idea how to communicate with her. Thoughts flashed through her head and almost all were smacked down like birds with stones. The silence between them served as further annoyance. Duck fondly recalled a meeting similar to this about a week ago. It hadn't turned out so bad. Maybe she could make another friend.

"Uhh... What's your name?" the woman blinked at the sudden amiability.

"I am Rue Nagi. You will call me Ms. Rue Nagi, Duck."

"Huh. Ms. Rue Nagi. Is it alright if I just call you Rue?" The woman before her scrunched her face in minor distaste while slightly shaking her head. Her hair bounced with the small motion, dark tresses framing each cheek. Duck just gave her a slow, easy smile.

"No. You will not address me so informally."

"But Ms. Rue Nagi is so long." came the long whine. Duck wasn't sure if the annoyance displayed on Ms. Nagi's face was a source of joy or embarrassment, but the drawn out syllables did little to change the other woman's expression.

"Ms. Rue Nagi. Why do I have to say your name like that? No one calls me Ms. Duck Geflügel." then to herself "Should I make people call me that?" Duck then considered how her name would sound issued repetitively from mouths unfamiliar to the German language. She was glad she didn't insist on such formality. It would be an all together unfortunate ordeal. Maybe Fakir could manage the pronunciation though. That errant thought sent her on another tangent, wondering if they were destined to meet again- not in some spectacular way, just a 'Hello how is it going? Have you been using my gift?' and 'Is a child still guarding your cart? Did you fix that idiotic banner?' sort of way. Maybe he would do some of those faqr tricks she had heard a couple of traders mention. Like walking on hot coals or getting buried alive. She thought briefly about these performances and then thought better of her desire. It wouldn't be nice if Fakir git hurt because she wanted a show.

Rue huffed before relenting, the sharp noise drew Duck from her daze.

"Fine. I guess I'll just have to deal with your disrespect. I am only accepting this because you are a foreigner."

"Huh? What?"

"Is it tradition for people from you county to not listen to others, Duck?"

"Ummm... No?"

"Well. Then you should be pleased to know I will allow the great disrespect of you calling me by my informal name." Duck's eyes brightened at the woman she had only just met.

"I am only doing this because I will probably never see you again and because I have never heard someone say my full name so stupidly before."

"Oh! Um thanks Rue!"

They watched each other for a few seconds with drastically differing expressions. It was not clear whether the two should have met or not.

* * *

Behind his eyelids, the world was teal and rose and orange. The breaking rays falling on the sandy dunes like waves of a distant ocean, almost refracting in crystal grains. The heat of the day waned, fading from his skin and drawing back for the chill of night. The light was ending, born again in the morning with a roaring bright ball, eating away at darkness like the vengeful demons he had read about during his time at the monastery and preached about in his public recountings of Hindu stories. Presently, that wrath hid under the mountains of sand illuminating the far of depths beneath him. Another day passed, another night before him.

Fakir was so tired of the desert. Walking the purple road in darkness and that blinding gold one in the light, never stopping, he was always in some undetermined direction with some predetermined fate. Fakir hated it. He had spent the last three days stumbling about in the blinding vastness, nothing to eat and drops in his canteen. This carelessness sprouted from the still untouched book deep in his pack. It was immensely distracting, causing Fakir to waver at the crossroads between Mecca and Jiddah for a good half a day. All for a pen! Since when had he become so indecisive? The whole thing was infuriating and it was all Duck's fault. Stupid bird.

Fakir felt childish blaming the girl. She had the best intentions- in fact, she was probably the nicest thing that had happened to him during those three long years. She didn't know how much turmoil was born from that little blank book. Those unassuming pages got Fakir lost, pacing circles around himself between endless dunes.

He closed his eyes against the sunset's glare and found that teal, rose and orange world.

Jiddah drew him away from Mecca, down the well trod trade road and the red rays of the sun descending into night. Fakir was coming closer to something- a nameless thing. It was a solution he could feel it, smell it on the dry winds. He would find out how when it had pulled him in, enveloping him in a new destiny.

Fakir would buy a pen in Jiddah.


End file.
